Where were we then?
At the kiosk buying new night dreams.
At the shallow river skipping white stones too thin/
In cathedral-forest sunlight ribboning people we couldn’t be anymore.
Troubled but feigning the bravery of bird song gathering thistle before the black bears escapes winter.
But you were a painting by then—
Daffodils shifting across coalescing canvases—
A fractured melody of yellow kites and blue-star crocuses.
A spiritual notification maybe—
a dream sheathed in light.
The body always leaves itself.
The skeleton can’t always hold, you’d say.
That was after our mothers watched us from golden corridors–
Their redolence of lilac and jasmine–
their vanity tables they no longer owned.
The stars took over our city of coffee shops and too many stoplights,
turning them blue to move us vertical,
trade places in the magic of kindness—
magnified with moonglow on the sea forever blanketing ancient cities of pharaohs and kings–
women who bathe their feet with hibiscus and prayer for an altar of rain–
a new laziness with time.
When were we then?
In someone else’s dream bartering new memories,
emotional trampolines with bird-view of summer,
sky-view of clover—something momentarily divine.